


In The Arms of A Werewolf

by literaryoblivion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Between Seasons/Series, Blizzards & Snowstorms, Cuddling & Snuggling, First Kiss, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Kissing, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Snow, Snow and Ice, Snowed In, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:59:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3133646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryoblivion/pseuds/literaryoblivion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You have got to be kidding me.”</p><p>Stiles is flabbergasted. How is this even possible? Werewolves he can take. Poisonous lizard creatures, sure. Once dead, now living creepy werewolf uncles, bit of a stretch but he can roll with it. Sacrificing ancient druids that masquerade as teachers, okay fine. But this?</p><p>An honest to god abominable snowman? In Beacon Hills, California no less?</p><p>Nope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Arms of A Werewolf

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spellwovennight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spellwovennight/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this!! I realize that it's not /exactly/ like the snowed in/blizzard prompt you had wanted, but I hope you like it anyway.
> 
> Also, in this fic, the events of S3b and S4 definitely didn't happen.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

Stiles is flabbergasted. How is this even possible? Werewolves he can take. Poisonous lizard creatures, sure. Once dead, now living creepy werewolf uncles, bit of a stretch but he can roll with it. Sacrificing ancient druids that masquerade as teachers, okay fine. But this?

An honest to god abominable snowman? In _Beacon Hills, California_ no less?

Nope.

Not cool. Stiles is not alright with this. And he doesn’t care that he’s seen glimpses of it in the woods and that it’s _blizzarding_ right now, it’s not enough proof for him. He’s denying everything, packing his bags, dragging his dad with him, and they are moving far, far away. He’s always wanted to go to Vegas, and Florida must be gorgeous this time of year. It’ll be like a father-son bonding road trip. His dad will love it.

“Stiles, you can’t just leave,” says Derek, scowling at Stiles’s rambling as he paces around his room, pulling clothes from his closet and tossing them on his bed.

“Why not? You did. I see no problem with just heading out of town. I’ll send postcards.”

“Stiles, stop,” Derek says, sounding a tiny bit desperate. He doesn’t, however, make a move to physically stop Stiles from taking out a suitcase and throwing all the clothes from his bed into it. He does stand from his seat at Stiles’s desk chair and takes a few steps closer, though. “You know the Jeep won’t make it out of town, that is if you can even get out of the neighborhood.”

Stiles freezes his frantic packing because Derek’s right. Goddamnit. The snow that this stupid yeti--at least that’s what they think it is--decided to bring with him on his visit has been piling up for the last three days. They’ve cancelled school and almost every store in town is closed. The county isn’t equipped to deal with this kind of weather, so the roads are dangerously slick and packed with snow with no way of clearing it out. His dad had said snow plows and extra salt are on their way in, but they won’t get there for a few more days.

Before his dad left to brave the elements to go into work that morning (because even though everything else is closed, doesn’t mean the police department gets to be), they had watched the news and weather report. Even the weatherman looked boggled by the sudden dropping temperatures, saying that Beacon Hills had never seen a snow storm like this ever. That the only thing similar on record had been fifty years prior, and it had lasted a week before it had returned to normal temperatures. The anchors made some crack about global warming to which they all fake laughed and moved on to more reports about the snow.

That’s it. That’s all the news is at this point because that’s all anyone can do. Stare at the snow, tell people to be safe if they try to venture out, report that schools remain closed, that all the grocery stores are low on water and soup, the electric companies are doing their best to keep the power from going out, etc. It is, for all intents and purposes, the snowpocalypse.

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles grits out through clenched teeth, his hands in fists at his sides. He is not happy about this, but he can’t leave, and what else is he going to do? Hunker down and wait it out? When did that ever work for him? He turns to face Derek, “What am I supposed to do? Why do you need _me_?”

Derek sighs, the tension in his face and shoulders leaking out a little, like he’s relieved. “We have to figure out a way to kill it or at least make it leave, or something.”

“We?”

The werewolf scowls, “Don’t make me say it, Stiles.”

“Say what?” Stiles asks, all faux innocence.

Derek scrubs a hand over his face and slumps. “You know you’re the only one that can figure this out. I need you to help me figure this out.”

Stiles lets a smirk grow on his face. It never gets old hearing Derek beg for help and rely on Stiles. It helps Stiles’s self-esteem knowing that Derek needs him; although, it’d be nice to know that he needs him for things other than research or because there’s some supernatural crisis facing Beacon Hills. Stiles will help, don’t get him wrong (hello, he lives here too), but Derek seems to only come around for research related purposes these days. It kind of sucks.

“Alright, but only because I like you,” Stiles says, and hopes that Derek’s not paying attention to the fact that his heart totally didn’t blip at the words or that the wolf interprets them to mean he likes him as a friend.

Stiles waves Derek aside to get to his computer, and Derek does but follows closely behind Stiles to his desk chair so that he’s already peering over Stiles’s shoulder, his breath warm on Stiles’s neck, before Stiles even opens the screen. Stiles is too distracted to comment on it, so he ignores it.

“Okay,” Stiles says once his screen is on and the beastiary is open. “What do we know?”

“Obviously it’s some kind of supernatural creature that brings snow.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yes, but have you seen it? Like really gotten a good look at it? Do you know what it looks like?” He looks over his shoulder at Derek because the dude likes to be as nonverbal as possible sometimes. Derek shakes his head.

“So, no visual confirmation. There’s lots of winter creatures in this thing, but it’s hard to narrow it down if we don’t know anything else about it besides it brings snow and frigid temperatures.”

“Okaaayyy,” Derek says, his tone of voice fed up and wanting Stiles to get to the point.

“Which means, we’re going to have to try to track it down, determine what it is, and then move on from there.”

Derek growls. “I was afraid of that.”

“Sorry, big guy, but that’s all I got. So,” Stiles says standing again and crossing to his bed to finish cleaning up the mess of clothes he created on his bed, “let me know when you get a good close up on the thing. Meanwhile, I’ll be underneath layers of blankets with a hot chocolate and playing video games.”

He turns to give Derek a wide grin, but finds Derek staring back with a quirked eyebrow and a growing devilish grin.

“Why are you looking at me like that? It’s creeping me out.”

“Because,” Derek says, oh so helpfully, and he starts picking up a few of Stiles’s warmer clothes from the ground.

“Why are you helping me pick up my shit? Seriously freaking me out now.”

“Good,” Derek says, shoving what ends up being a wool coat, 4 flannel shirts and one glove (man, Stiles has been looking for that!) at Stiles’s chest. “Get dressed. You’re coming with me.” Derek immediately does an about-face and leaves Stiles standing, spluttering in his own room.

“Are you shitting me, Derek? DEREK! Fuck you! I am not going out in that!” Stiles yells, dropping all his clothes to point out the window, although no one is there to see him point. “Derek Hale, you and your werewolf self can handle it, me, Stiles the _human_ cannot spend longer than fifteen minutes out there without catching my death!”

Stiles stops but hears nothing, which means Derek is being a buttface and ignoring him, which means Stiles will have to go downstairs, which means he’ll end up layering all of the clothes he owns on so he can go help find this stupid yeti-wannabe thing out in the snow with Derek. Shit.

He gathers what he can, three pairs of socks, two pairs of sweats, a pair of pajama pants, an armful of flannel shirts both long sleeve and short, and takes the pile downstairs. Because if Derek’s going to be a dick, then he can sure as hell help Stiles put on all this shit.

“Catching your death?” Derek says with one eyebrow raised. “What are you eighty?”

“Oh, so you _were_ listening, jerkface?”

“You’re very loud, how could I not?”

Stiles opens his mouth to make a retort but huffs instead. Not worthit.

“Here,” Stiles says, handing over the clothes he has, “You get to help me put these on.”

“One minute, you’re eighty, now you’re five? You can’t put on your own damn clothes?”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “Do you want my help or not, asshole?” Derek sighs, and stands there, letting Stiles take one piece of clothing out of his hands at a time and using him for balance as he tries to yank on a new article of clothing over the ones he’s already wearing. Derek does have to actually help him with the last few layers because Stiles can’t really bend the right way with everything he’s wearing to put on his socks and shoes.

“You look like an idiot,” Derek says at last, once Stiles is suited up, with his coat, boots, beanie, scarf, and gloves.

“Yeah, but I’m a warm one, so shut up.” Stiles waddles over to the front door, not bothering to grab his keys because if someone wants to brave the weather to rob them, then they should be rewarded. Derek, though, does get his keys and even locks the door behind them once they’re outside. Stiles can’t really comment because a scarf is currently covering his mouth (Derek probably fucking planned that when he put it on him, the bastard).

Derek, who brought his soccer mom van, complete with snow tire chains (which how did he even get those?), holds open the car door and has to help push Stiles in (again, too many layers). He shakes his head as he shuts the door and goes around to the other side. Derek is only wearing a couple long sleeve sweaters (ones Stiles has never seen and Derek should wear more often once this is all over, quite frankly) and his leather jacket (must be the only jacket he owns). He does have gloves, but they’re currently shoved in his pockets. He’s not even shivering (which Stiles is already doing despite the layers). Must be nice, werewolf body heat. Ugh.

“I saw some tracks by the house, so we’ll start there,” Derek says, starting the car and pulling slowly out of Stiles’s driveway.

Stiles bobs his head, but honestly, Derek probably can’t tell. So, he sits there watching the snow fall on the windshield as they make their way toward the preserve.

Once they’re closer to the Hale house, Derek pulls off the side of the highway. Stiles does his best to give him a questioning look through the small space he has between his hat and scarf.

“I don’t want to risk getting the car stuck in the deeper snow. On the road it’s not quite as bad because there are still people traveling on it. But out there,” Derek says pointing toward the blanket of white interrupted by drooping branches, “it’s been collecting ever since the thing got here.”

Stiles grunts to indicate he understands, although he’s not happy about it. It means they’re going to have to walk in that shit, and his pants are definitely not waterproof. Derek gets out, opens the back door and pulls a large duffel bag towards him. He unzips it and pulls out what looks like a rubber jumpsuit, the kind fishermen who like to stand in the middle of the stream wear, which what?

“It was all I could find,” Derek says, seeming to read Stiles’s mind. He pulls on the suit over his shoes and pants, then zipsup the bag. He slings it over his shoulder so the bag rests against his chest, which is weird, but Stiles (again) can’t really comment, and slogs his way over to Stiles’s side of the car (where he’s still currently sitting in his seat).

Stiles tries to mumble that he’ll wait in the car, but Derek pretends to not notice (or ignores him outright) and pulls open Stiles’s door. Stiles _really_ doesn’t want to climb through the snow in crappy boots and non-waterproof pants, but he sees no way around it. That is until Derek sidles up to Stiles’s side and hunches over, his hands on his knees. Stiles finally yanks down enough of his scarf to free his mouth.

“Uh, Derek, are you okay? What the hell are you doing?”

“Climb on.”

“Excuse me?”

Derek sighs exasperatedly. “Climb on to my back.”

“Why?”

“Why the fuck do you think? So I can carry you, numbskull.”

“Seriously?” Derek whips his head around and glares at Stiles. “Okay! Okay, got it. Climbing aboard the Derek train.” He’s pretty sure Derek’s eyes are rolling into the back of his skull even though he can’t see it. Stiles twists around, wraps his arms around Derek’s neck, his legs around his waist, to which Derek grabs a hold of and then lifts Stiles out of his seat and into the open air.

“Get the door,” Derek grunts out, and Stiles obeys, leaning back to slam the door shut. “Don’t choke me. Oh. Just to warn you, I’m dropping you if the thing attacks. I can’t fight and carry you at the same time,” Derek says once they’re a few feet away from the car.

“As long as it’s worth the frostbite and you save me, that’s fine,” Stiles mumbles into Derek’s collar. He never thought he’d be glad for a time when there were so many layers of clothing between him and Derek. There’s no way Derek could feel any awkward boners that may or may not occur from rubbing up and down Derek’s back as they trek further into the woods.

They don’t talk much, mainly because Stiles is too cold to form words, as they go along. Derek points out where he last saw the tracks to Stiles, and Stiles nods against the back of Derek’s neck. He can tell Derek is trying to sniff something out, but the temperature, and the wind, and snow make it difficult. But he continues on, and Stiles hopes they won’t get lost or end up in circles until they die. He’s doing his best to believe in Derek and his werewolf abilities, but he can’t really feel his toes, so that faith might die quickly.

It starts to get dark, which means either they’re so deep in the forest that the canopy has started blocking out the sunlight, or they’ve been out there for a few hours, long enough for the sun to start going down. Neither is good because it means it will only get colder, and at this point most of Stiles’s extremities are numb, and he can feel, despite the werewolf heat, Derek is starting to shiver as well.

“We either need to leave or find shelter,” Stiles shouts over the increasing roar of the wind and snow that whips around them the further into the forest they get.

Derek nods in agreement and hikes Stiles up more on his back. “I know of a place. It’s just a bit further,” Derek yells back. Stiles pats Derek on the chest to indicate he heard him and then holds on to Derek tighter. He can barely feel anything at this point, the wind making the chill unbearable.

The werewolf picks up the pace as he trudges further, seeming to understand that despite all of Stiles’s layers, they’re proving useless in these conditions. Keeping his eyes open in the wind and snow hurts, so Stiles buries his face in Derek’s neck and trusts that Derek knows where he’s going to take them to the place he said he knew.

It’s not until he can feel Derek slowing that he looks up to see a tiny cottage amongst the snow-laden trees. It too is covered in snow, but Stiles can just barely make out a door in the whiteness and what looks like it could be a chimney. Thank god.

Ever suspicious, Derek walks around the entire cottage before he actually attempts to go in. It takes a few tries to budge open the door, what with the erosion, snow, and age. Derek never lets Stiles down the entire time he’s working at the door. It’s not like Stiles could help anyway since, no super strength, and he’s currently numb from the waist down. He’s not even sure he could actually stand if Derek were to let him down.

Once they’re finally in, Derek sets Stiles down on a very worn couch and drapes the blanket that was across the back of it over Stiles. Then he turns, like he’s leaving.

“Where are you going?!” Stiles yells in a panic.

“I need to get some wood, start a fire. There was a pile under the tarp behind the cottage. I won’t be gone long,” Derek says, and his voice sounds soft, like he’s reassuring Stiles. Stiles nods, well more like shivers enough for it to look like he’s nodding his head, and Derek smiles before leaving Stiles on his own in the cold abandoned cottage.

He still can’t really get up, his legs tingly with slowly returning feeling. He takes in the cottage as well as he can, turning his head to see. It looks like it’s been abandoned for quite some time, a thick layer of dust visible on the floor and the table closest to Stiles. But, it is cozy, the couch he’s laying on is comfortable, and there’s a well-loved recliner facing the fireplace. He can just see a small dining table and a wood-burning stove over the back of the couch, and a few books are scattered along the mantle over the fireplace.

There’s no personal artifacts, no pictures, letters, knick-knacks. It’s plain, with only the bare necessities to live. He wonders if this was one of Derek’s hideouts back before he got the loft or fully integrated himself back into the society of Beacon Hills. How else did Derek know this was here?

Derek finally comes back in, several chopped logs of wood in his arms, and a nice dusting of snow in his hair. His cheeks and nose are rosy, and Stiles thinks he looks beautiful. He can feel his face get hot and hopes that Derek doesn’t notice when he steps over to the fireplace to dump the wood.

“I had to dig to find pieces that were dry enough to light,” Derek says absently as he crosses the room to his duffel bag to sort through it to find the matches. He also pulls out a few cans of soup and a loaf of bread.

Stiles keeps quiet as he watches Derek rip a few pages out of one of the books nearby (he checks, it was a self-help book, so he doesn’t feel bad letting Derek rip from it) and light it to get their fire started. Slowly but surely the flame finally catches on the wood, and the fireplace creates a nice glow and warmth in the room.

“Let’s get these first layers off,” Derek says. His clothes are a little damp, sure, what with the snowfall Derek carried him through, but not that bad in Stiles’s opinion. Derek sits next to Stiles and pulls his feet into his lap to help him take off his boots and socks so he can get the rest of the layers off. “They’re wet,” Derek says before Stiles can make a comment on how Derek wants to get him out of his clothes.

Really, Stiles is too tired and cold to even make any kind of snide remark about their whole situation and lets Derek unwrap his scarf and pull off his coat and hoodie. Derek lets Stiles take off his own pants, and finally Stiles is in nothing but a few long-sleeve T-shirts and a sweater and the pair of jeans he was wearing underneath all of his sweats. He can’t stop the shiver that overcomes him once all the layers are off and the cold air seeps into his skin.

“Sit by the fire, I’ll warm up the soup,” Derek says, tilting his head toward the fire before going into the kitchen, taking a few more logs and the matches with him, to rummage through the cupboard to pull out a pot.

Stiles isn’t quite sure what’s happened in the few hours they’ve been together that’s made Derek willingly take care of him, helping him get warm, making him food. But, Stiles is not going to look a gift-horse in the mouth; in fact, he could get used to this behavior from Derek. He doesn’t want to hope that maybe it’s because Derek _actually_ cares about him.

He gets up from the couch and drags his blanket and a throw pillow to a spot directly in front of the fireplace and plops down. Immediately, he feels better, the warmth from the fire washing over him and  replacing the cold ache that had settled in his bones earlier. He sits as close as he dares and wraps the blanket over his back and shoulders, sitting on the throw pillow. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Derek as he putters around the kitchen, searching the cupboards and drawers for spoons and bowls, the pot on the stove already starting to steam and bubble.

Derek pours the soup out into the two mismatched bowls he found and takes a seat next to Stiles in front of the fire and hands him one of the bowls.

“Thank you,” Stiles says as he accepts the bowl, blowing on it a little so it won’t burn his tongue when he takes a spoonful. Derek grunts and begins eating the hot liquid, his gaze on the fire in front of them.

They eat in silence, slurping from their spoons, tearing pieces of bread to dip in and eat, although both take furtive glances at each other while the other isn’t looking. It’s like they have to make sure they’re both still there, that this isn’t something they’re imagining.

“It’s a good thing you knew this place was here,” Stiles finally says, breaking their companionable silence. “And that you brought food. Thanks again.”

“I figured we might need it if we got stuck. This… place. It… used to be my family’s.”

Stiles sets down his empty bowl on the ground next to him, pulling the blanket around him tighter, and waits for Derek to continue.

“We used it as a sort of check point when we were out on full moons. Sometimes we were too exhausted to go all the way back to our house, so we’d stay here until we were rested enough to go home.” A log shifts, causing the fire to crackle louder. “I stayed here a little after… between… when I didn’t have anywhere else.”

Derek sets his own bowl on the ground before rubbing his hands together and holding them out in front of the fire. Stiles has the thought to share his blanket, and although he’d squash it any other time, he decides to follow through. He scoots closer to Derek, holding out the edge of the blanket closest to Derek. The werewolf pays him no attention, or at least pretends not to, until Stiles finally is close enough to drape the edge over Derek’s shoulders. The older man turns his head, his eyebrow up in a question.

“We can share,” Stiles says, a small hesitant smile on his face. Derek nods and pulls the blanket so it’s covering them more, scoots closer so he’s a solid line of warmth against Stiles’s side. Stiles, usually one to fill the silence, doesn’t want to break this fragile moment between them. Derek is warm and comfortable and the glow of the fire against his features almost makes him seem like a dream, a dream Stiles doesn’t want to wake from or disturb with his chatter.

“We’ll have to stay here ‘til morning,” Derek utters after a while of both of them zoning out to the slowly dying, flickering flames. Stiles is nodding off, his head drooping dangerously close to rest against Derek’s shoulder. “I think the creature’s close though; when I was getting the wood, I saw fresh tracks.”

Stiles bobs his head around a yawn. “Okay. Good plan. Is there a bedroom or do we have to coin toss for the couch?”

He can feel Derek stiffen slightly against him, and then he answers, “There’s a bed. I can sleep on the couch.”

Stiles furrows his brow and looks back at the couch, which really can’t be called a couch but more a loveseat. “Dude, that thing is barely big enough for me, no way you can get any sleep on that.” He twists around to see the hallway, which must lead to the bathroom and the bedroom Derek’s talking about. “How uh… how big is the bed? Maybe we could… share?” He hates how small and hesitant he sounds. He’s only imagined sharing a bed with Derek and now that the possibility is there to be taken or rejected, he's afraid of it. God, why did he even suggest it. He’s such an idiot.

“It’s uh, it’s a queen, so… we could. Share, I mean. It might be better… heat wise. There’s no stove or fireplace in the bedroom, and with the creature being so close, I’m not sure we should keep the fire going and alert it of where we are.”

Stiles bobs his head furiously, hoping that if he moves his head fast enough, Derek won’t notice the grin that’s threatening to break across his face. He’s going to be in bed with Derek, and they’ll have to cuddle! For warmth! _Get a hold of yourself, Stiles._ “Good thinking,” Stiles says while he stands, letting the blanket fall off his shoulders. “You get the fire; I’ll take care of these.” Stiles gathers up their bowls from the floor.

Derek watches as Stiles crosses in front of him to the kitchen before he too stands. He takes the long poker leaning to the side of the fireplace to push the logs apart to help extinguish the fire faster. The fire was almost out anyway with only the few logs Derek was able to find that were dry. Stiles already misses the heat of the fire when he comes back to stand next to Derek as he pokes at the dying embers. He bends over to retrieve their blanket, and when he rights himself, there’s a faint blush along Derek’s cheeks. If he didn’t know better, Stiles would think he put it there.

They both stand, shoulder to shoulder, watching the fire go out, and when it finally is, Stiles yawns and reaches for Derek’s wrist as he says, “Let’s go to bed.” Only, it’s not Derek’s wrist that he grabs but his hand, and his brain is too sluggish in the cold to realize the implications of what he said.

Derek, though, only nods and returns Stiles’s grip on his hand and pulls him down the hallway to the bedroom.

It’s a small room, the queen size bed taking up most of the space, with a small nightstand on one side of it and a three-drawer dresser on the other. There’s enough room for a pathway around the bed to get to either side of it, but that’s it. Just to the right of the bedroom is the bathroom, another small room, with just enough space for a pedestal sink, toilet, and a shower stall. At the end of the hall is a smaller door, what Stiles assumes is a linen closet.

“Do you… do you want the bathroom first?” Derek asks, thumbing behind him while he and Stiles stand just inside the bedroom.

“Sure,” Stiles answers, gives Derek a small smile as he sidesteps around him out of the room.

Once in the bathroom, he sees a small cabinet above the toilet, and he knows he shouldn’t hope to find anything and opens it anyway. There’s a very rusted razor, plenty of cobwebs, and an unopened bar of soap, which he pulls out and sets on the edge of the sink. He sighs and shuts the cabinet before relieving himself. He opens the soap and washes his hands, drying them on his jeans since there’s only an empty rack with no towel. He gargles some water, since it’s the best he can do, and spits and wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

He comes back into the bedroom, and Derek has turned down the covers, and left several blankets on the end of the bed.

“I found some in the closet,” Derek says when he sees Stiles eye the pile.

“Right. There’s only soap in the bathroom, so I apologize for the breath I’ll have in the morning,” Stiles says with a grin. Derek rolls his eyes and scoots past him to take his turn in the bathroom.

Stiles isn’t sure if Derek has a particular side of the bed he prefers, although, now that he thinks of it, Derek probably sleeps in the middle of his own bed. Stiles has a twin himself, so it’s not like there’s much room for him to favor one side over the other. As such, he picks the side near the dresser, which happens to be farther from the door, figuring Derek would want to be near the exit.

Derek walks in just as Stiles is pulling up the sheets and comforter over his legs.

“Uh, did you want this side? I can move?” Stiles points to the other side, but Derek shakes his head and walks further into the room, the floorboards creaking slightly as he does.

“Do you want another blanket?” Derek asks, picking one up from the end of the bed and unfolding it without waiting for Stiles’s answer.

“Thanks,” Stiles says when Derek throws it over the bed. Stiles helps straighten it a little. He fiddles with the hem, stares at the pattern, while he waits for Derek to join him.

Derek hesitates at the end of the bed, but eventually--finally--sits on the other side of the bed. Stiles refuses to look up when he feels the bed dip beside him, hears the rustle of the sheets as Derek pulls them over himself. When he does look over, Derek is laying down, his back to Stiles.

“Night,” Stiles says, to which Derek grunts, and then sinks further beneath the covers, laying down, facing away from Derek.

There’s plenty of space between them, which Stiles feels odd about, knowing that he’ll eventually wander toward the middle as he sleeps. But there’s something else that’s bothering him, has been since they got to the cabin, and he can’t seem to shake it. He tries to ignore it, tries to force himself to go to sleep, to burrow further into the covers.

The bed creaks beside him, and he knows Derek has rolled over, is now facing him.

“What is it Stiles?” Derek says, voice low and quiet, as if keeping with the darkness of the room.

Stiles sighs, rolls over so now he’s facing the werewolf, who is a lot closer than he had thought. Their faces are several inches apart, and despite the lack of light, he can still make out the curve of Derek’s nose, the line of his jaw.

“Why… why are you being so nice to me?” Stiles whispers, just barely, enough for Derek’s werewolf hearing to pick up.

He can see Derek’s eyebrows come together. “What do you mean?”

“You… you carried me in the snow, you helped me take off my wet clothes, made me dinner, kept me warm… I… I don’t get it. I thought… You hate me.”

“I… I don’t hate you. When did I say I hated you?”

Stiles rolls his eyes and huffs. “You didn’t have to say it; you yell at me and argue and call me names. It’s pretty obvious, dude.”

“That… you do the same to me. Do you hate _me_?”

Stiles opens his mouth, only to snap it shut with nothing to say. He works his jaw and finally starts again. “No.”

“It’s easier. To do those things, yell, be mean, for self-preservation, instead of… what I want to do. What I’d rather do.”

Stiles locks eyes with Derek. “Which is?” he says in a whisper, unconsciously holding his breath after, waiting for Derek’s reply.

Derek lifts his hand, cups Stiles’s cheek, and rubs his thumb along his cheekbone. Stiles’s eyes flutter shut at the action, and he lets out his breath. When he opens his eyes again, Derek’s face is so much closer than before, their noses practically touching.

“This,” Derek breathes out against Stiles’s lips, tilting his head slightly before closing the scant space between them and pressing his lips to Stiles’s.

The kiss is soft, slow, only hints of tongue between the both of them. Stiles grips Derek’s wrist, Derek’s hand still on his face, drifting down to his jaw, his neck. It’s kind of perfect, better than what Stiles had imagined, and he doesn’t want Derek to stop kissing him or touching him. Unfortunately, they do break the kiss, with Derek pulling back enough to look at him better.

“You should take the challenging course more often. It’s worth it,” Stiles says, his eyes closed and grinning.

Derek huffs out a laugh, leans in to kiss Stiles a few more times. “I’ll remember that,” he says against his lips. “Go to sleep, Stiles.”

Stiles rolls over so his back is to Derek’s front, and Derek pulls him in closer to his chest with an arm around his waist. Stiles puts his own arm over Derek’s, their hands on top of each other “G’night, Der,” he says, already drifting off to sleep.

Derek kisses the back of his neck. “Night.” He laces their fingers together and tightens his arm around Stiles.

Despite the freezing temperatures outside, and the growing cold of the cottage, it’s nice and warm in bed and in the arms of the werewolf, and Stiles falls right to sleep.

~

The last thing Stiles expects to wake up to is Derek shaking him and yelling at him to get up. He’s just barely starting to be coherent when Derek runs into the room, tossing his jacket and shoes and the other clothes he had left in the living room to dry.

“Stiles, we have to go! It’s coming!” Derek shouts, jerkily putting on his own jacket and the rubber fisherman pants.

Closer than he’s comfortable with, Stiles can hear a roar echo around them, and it sounds like the creature is right outside the cabin. Which is an accurate guess because just as Stiles finishes putting on his shoes, there’s a loud crash next to the room, like the monster just tried to break through the wall to get to them.

There’s wood chips and dust and debris that scatter down around him, and Stiles yelps, jumping away from where the ceiling is bowing dangerously overhead.

“Stiles!” Derek screams, leaping over the bed to pick up Stiles and carry him out of the room. Stiles only has one arm through his jacket, the rest of it flying behind him as Derek runs them both out of the cottage.

“Wait! Derek!” Stiles yells, hitting Derek’s shoulder to get him to stop.

“We have to get out of here!”

“Not before we get a good look at the thing! That’s the whole reason why we fucking trekked over here!”

Derek opens his mouth to say something else, but instead another loud roar echoes behind them. Derek turns around, and they finally get a good look at the monster that’s causing Beacon Hills to be a land of ice and snow.

The monster is huge, towering above them both, as tall as the trees surrounding them. It’s a bluish-gray with sharp spikes sticking out all over it’s body, as if it’s made of ice itself. It’s eyes are glowing yellow, but not like a Beta’s yellow/gold eyes. There’s no pupils visible; they’re just pinpoints of light as if it’s eyes are glowing embers. It has a pair of large curved horns protruding from either side of it’s head, and while it’s human in shape, with legs and arms, it’s far from it in reality.

Behind it, Stiles can see the destroyed cottage, broken and frozen. It moves trees away as it approaches them, and as soon as it touches the trees, the trees ice over and crystallize then snap with the force of the monster’s hand.

“Shit, Derek! RUN!”

“Now you agree with me?” Derek yells, running as fast as he can with Stiles in his arms.

Once they break through the treeline, the monster stops and does not follow them past the preserve, which is good to know. Derek, though, doesn’t stop his momentum but continues on to his car, covered in snow and slightly iced over.

It takes no effort, however, for Derek to yank open the icy car door, put Stiles in, and run around to do the same to his own door and climb in. It’s not until the car’s started and they’re back on the road that both of them catch their breath, the adrenaline from the chase starting to dissipate.

“Have you seen anything like that before?” Stiles breathes out.

“No, have you?” Derek asks, his hands gripping the steering wheel, risking glances at Stiles.

Stiles bites his lip. “I think I have actually… And if it is what I think it is, it looks like Loki got past Heimdall and used the bifrost,” Stiles smirks at Derek, and Derek frowns.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Derek sneers.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Just drive to my house. I gotta make sure I’m right first.”

As Derek pulls up to the Stilinski house, Scott, Mrs. McCall, and the Sheriff pour out the front door. Before Stiles has even climbed out, the Sheriff is already yelling at him.

“Where the hell have you been?! I thought you were dead in a ditch somewhere, or frozen and succumbing to frostbite!” the Sheriff shouts, pulling Stiles into his chest and wrapping his arms around him. He’s holding on to him tight enough that it’s making it difficult to breath.

“You didn’t leave a note or text him?” Derek asks, like this whole thing is not his fault.

Stiles glares back at the werewolf. “You were rushing me! I forgot!” He turns back to his dad, putting on his best pout. “Sorry, Dad. But I’m okay, see? And, we saw the thing that’s forcing us to live in the frozen tundra.”

“You did?” Scott asks, coming up to stand next to the Sheriff. Melissa went back inside when she saw everyone was okay and is presumably putting on water to boil to make hot chocolate.

“Come on, explain inside where it’s warmer,” the Sheriff says beckoning Derek with his hand and then guiding Stiles toward the house with an arm around his shoulders. Scott trails behind the three of them.

As suspected, Melissa is in the kitchen, pulling out mugs for all of them and dishing out hot chocolate mix into the mugs while the kettle bubbles. The fire, in the fireplace that Stiles always thought was more for decoration than actual functionality, is roaring as they file into the living room.

“Ok, what is it?” Scott asks.

“Oh, right! I think… hold on,” Stiles says and then runs upstairs to his room to get his laptop and a few books he thinks might be useful. He carries them back down and sets it on the coffee table. Melissa hands him a steaming cup of cocoa, and Stiles smiles his thanks and takes a sip, then sets it down next to the books.

He opens his laptop, pulls up a couple of browser windows worth of links and flips through one of the books, one on mythology, until he finds what he’s looking for; everyone else sips their drinks, waiting for Stiles to clue them in on the information he’s gathering.

“Aha!” Stiles says when he finds the picture in the book. He turns it towards Derek, who he hadn’t realized was sitting next to him on the couch until then. “This is it right?”

Derek nods. “Close to it.”

“I thought so. Okay, what we’re dealing with is what Norse mythology calls a jotun, or a frost giant.”

“Like Loki?” Scott interjects, and Stiles gets a swelling of pride in his chest for his best friend.

“That’s real?” the Sheriff asks.

Stiles shrugs. “Apparently? Although, I don’t think it’s _Loki_. But it is definitely a frost giant. Now…” he drags his laptop from the table and onto his legs. “We just have to figure out why it’s here and how to get rid of it.”

He types a little, does a few searches, and talks out loud while he does, “Okay, according to mythology, the frost giants have always been here in the mountains, which I don’t know about that. But, it says that they only emerge when their habitat is disturbed or something that they want is disturbed or unhidden. Any ideas?”

“Wait,” Derek says, “when exactly did the temperatures drop and start snowing?”

“It was maybe three or four days ago, I think?” Melissa says.

The Sheriff hums in agreement. “Why? What was going on before that?”

Derek’s brow furrows, his face showing his increasing anger. “Peter,” he growls out.

“Peter?” Stiles asks, hoping Derek can continue that train of thought.

The werewolf  puts his head in his hands. “I should have known.”

“Okay, you’re going to have to give me more to work with, big guy,” Stiles says, rubbing Derek’s back and shoulders, ignoring the quirk of the eyebrow and odd look from Scott and his dad.

“Peter was going through the vault, said he was doing inventory, or something. Probably trying to figure out what was rightfully his.  A few days before all the snow, he asked me if I’d ever seen some chest, said he couldn’t open it.”

“Did he open it?” Stiles asks.

Derek’s shoulders rise and slump beneath Stiles’s hand. “I’m betting the frost giant is here because of whatever is in that chest.”

Stiles sighs. “Guess we get to go talk to everyone’s favorite creepy uncle.”

~

They find him burrowed underneath a pile of blankets at Derek’s loft, of all places. Stiles gets that he’s still family, but he honestly doesn’t know why Derek hasn’t banished or exiled him or something. The man is trouble with a capital T.

“Ahhh, nephew and pet, to what do I owe the pleasure?” Peter says when Derek yanks the covers off of Peter.

“Where’s the chest, Peter?” Derek growls.

“What chest?”

“You know damn well what chest.”

“I’ve seen many a chest in my life, dear nephew, you’ll have to be more specific.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Cut the crap, Peter. What was in the chest that you found in the vault? The one you told Derek you couldn’t open.”

“Oh, that chest.”

“Yeah, _that_ chest,” Stiles says, mockingly.

“It was warded shut.”

“So you’re telling me you never opened it,” Derek says.

“Now, I didn’t say that.”

Stiles groans. “Unless you want to be stuck in Beacon Siberia forever, you better start talking.”

“Fine. I was able to find someone that could open the chest, but it was _empty_.”

“Empty? You’re sure?” Derek asks, knowing Peter isn’t lying; he believes the chest was empty.

“Where is the chest then?” Stiles asks because there’s gotta be something they’re missing if the frost giant turned up anyway. He needs to make sure that chest is well and truly empty, or doesn’t have some spell or rune on it that Peter enacted when he had it opened.

“I put it somewhere safe.”

“The vault?” Derek suggests.

“No, I buried it.”

“Where?”

An evil grin spreads over Peter’s face. “I will show you.”

~

For the second time, Derek and Stiles, and now Peter, are trudging back out into the snow towards the old Hale house.

“You buried it under the house? How cliche is that?” Stiles mutters under his breath.

Peter gives him a side sneer and continues leading them towards the house. They move to the back, to a spot mysteriously void of any snow.

“I’m guessing it’s there,” Derek says, pointing to the spot.

Peter nods and proceeds to grow his claws to dig and claw at the spot to remove the dirt and uncover the box.

“We could have grabbed a shovel,” Stiles says, but both Hales ignore him.

Finally, Peter lifts up the chest, brushing the dirt off of it. It’s a small chest, only one or two feet in length by one foot in width. On the outside, it seems rather plain, no significant markings or symbols on it. There’s not even a lock or handle on it. No wonder Peter couldn’t get it open.

With a smug look, Peter opens the chest and holds it out for them both to see. “As promised. Empty.”

Stiles peeks over the edge and furrows his brow, in his periphery he can see a similar look on Derek’s face.

“When you look you can’t see anything in it?” Derek asks Peter.

Peter’s face crunches, and he peers over the lid. “There’s nothing in there.”

Both Stiles and Derek look at each other, matching raised eyebrows.

“Uh… I think the chest has another ward on it,” Stiles says.

Confused, Peter asks, “What do you mean?”

“I mean, this chest is definitely not empty,” Stiles snarks back. He goes to reach in, but Derek stops him.

“What if there’s some other ward on it and you get hurt?” Derek says.

“I… fine, you pull it out then,” Stiles offers with a wave of his hand.

Slowly, Derek reaches in and when he touches the shiny object, visible to only Derek and Stiles, he pauses.

“So far so good,” Derek mutters. He starts pulling it out of the box, and what emerges seems to go on forever, much further than what the bottom of the box would suggest.

“Holy shit. It’s like Hermione’s bag,” Stiles says under his breath, and both werewolves narrow their eyes at him. “Or like Mary Poppin’s bag? Barney? Come on, guys.”

Derek rolls his eyes and continues pulling until finally the entire length of what looks to be a spear is out of the chest.

“Let me see,” Peter says, already moving to take it out of Derek’s hands, only Derek yanks it back out of his reach.

“Let me see it,” Stiles says holding out his hand for Derek. Derek gently places the spear in Stiles’s hands. Peter huffs and crosses his arms.

“This is… oh my god, it totally is. I can’t believe it.”

“Stiles.”

“Sorry, ok, see these runes,” Stiles points out along the length of the spear. “I’m pretty sure this is Gungnir, the spear of Odin.”

“Odin, as in the Norse King, father-of-Thor Odin?” Peter asks.

“Yup,” Stiles says. “I think that may be why you couldn’t see it. Much like Thor’s hammer, only the worthy can handle it.” He gives Peter a smirk, and Peter lifts his lip in a sneer.

“I bet this is why our buddy the jotun came out to play. They hate Odin and everything to do with him, and since _someone_ revealed the spear’s placement, he woke up and came looking for it.”

“That’s the only thing special about it? It belonged to Odin?” Derek asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s supposedly perfectly balanced, and no matter the skill of the handler, it will never miss its target. And,” Stiles says, turning to Derek with a grin, “pretty sure this is the only thing that can kill him.”

“Glad you figured that out because here’s your chance,” Peter says just before a loud roar sounds above them.

“Shit,” Stiles says, looking up at the giant towering above them. The jotun takes a swipe at them, and they all dodge out of the way, narrowly missing it.

“Don’t let him touch you!” Stiles shouts. “You’ll freeze in an instant!”

Peter, as always, is running away, not sticking around when there’s danger or his life is at risk. For a moment, though, Stiles is glad because Peter’s leaving distracts the jotun enough for him to run over to Derek.

“Derek! You okay?” Stiles helps him up, brushing off the snow from his hair and down the front of him.

Derek bobs his head, picking up the spear from the ground. He tosses it a few times in the air, as if trying to get a feel for it.

“All you have to do is throw it at him, it’ll hit him,” Stiles says.

“Are you sure?”

“That’s what the legend says. So yes, I’m sure. You trust me, right?”  The last sentence comes out tentative. Stiles remembers all too well Derek telling him he didn’t trust him. It’s been a while since then, and they’ve definitely moved past that, surely, but… part of him still needs to hear it confirmed.

“Of course,” Derek says, firm, steady. “I trust you completely.”

Stiles flings his arms around Derek’s neck and kisses him square on the lips. “Good,” he says when he leans back. “Now throw that spear at the thing so we can go home and make out.”

Derek chuckles, only to have it cut off when the frost giant rounds on them, giving up on chasing after Peter. Derek throws Stiles behind him and squares his shoulders to the frost giant. The temperature in the air drops as it gets closer to them, and as it approaches, Stiles can do nothing but watch.

As brave and confident and strong as the werewolf is most times, in this instance he seems frozen. Stiles knows he’s not _actually_ frozen; the frost giant hasn’t touched him. But maybe he needs a boost, some encouragement.

“Derek! Throw it! Now!” Stiles yells and hopes Derek can hear him over the howling wind and the frost giant’s roars.

He must have heard it though because after Stiles’s words, Derek raises the hand that’s holding the spear. With all the strength he can muster, Derek throws the spear at the frost giant. True to mythology, the spear finds its mark and pierces the frost giant and lodges itself in its chest.

The roar the beast lets out is deafening, and Stiles covers his ears in an attempt to muffle it. Derek runs over to him and gathers him up in his arms.

For the second time that day, he’s running away from the frost giant and carrying Stiles to safety.

~

It only takes a few hours for the temperatures to rise to normal and the snow is slowly melting. The day after, the streets are mostly cleared, and businesses are opened again. Technically, the next week was the start of winter break for the students, but because of the forced closing, all of the kids have to go back to class, with the break starting on the twenty-third instead of the twentieth as originally planned.

The teachers though don’t plan any material, and the students that do show up, that don’t have excuses of going out of town, end up playing games or watching movies. Which is totally cool with Stiles because the last thing he wants to do is actually learn when he’s supposed to be on vacation, and especially when he’s recovering from another traumatic supernatural experience (not that he could tell his teachers that).

Granted it wasn’t as traumatic as some he’d experienced, he walked away with all of his limbs and barely any scratches. He had some pretty numb toes and fingers, but Derek warmed those right up when they got back to his loft.

Derek had gone back after securing Stiles in the car to retrieve the spear. When he came back with the spear securely back in the chest that he held in his arms, Derek had said the frost giant had completely disappeared. That the only thing he saw was the spear sticking out of the ground and an indention in the snow of where the giant had landed.

Stiles really didn’t want to question it or investigate further, perfectly okay with the giant vanishing without a trace. All that mattered is that they wouldn’t have to worry about him anymore. They took the chest to Deaton, who re-warded it shut, and then went one step further and warded the place where Derek left it in the vault. They thought about asking Deaton about the disappearing jotun, but decided against it. He’d probably give them some cryptic explanation or just hum and give them some all-knowing look, none of which would be helpful.

They had warned Peter against magic-ing open anymore chests or boxes without telling them, and he seemed apologetic, but who knows with that guy. He claimed that was the only thing of the sort in the Hale vault, and Derek believed him, so that was good enough for Stiles. This whole trusting and believing each other thing was pretty great. He knew they’d have to face something else, it was only a matter of time. But, knowing Derek trusted him and that he trusted Derek, that they cared about each other, it made the possibility of unknown obstacles and threats less terrifying.

~

The school board took pity on the kids and only made them come to school for half-days, so when the bell rings at 1pm on the last day of classes, Stiles has his bags packed and is one of the first ones out of the room and the building. Because he has to leave now. Today is the day.

He shouts a goodbye and gives a wave to Scott on his way to his Jeep; he grins from ear to ear when he sees a tall, dark, and handsome man with green eyes and scruff that he highly suspects is a werewolf leaning against his car. He approaches slowly, stopping just in front of Derek.

“Can I help you, Mister?” Stiles teases.

“I’m having some car trouble, think I could get a lift?” Derek asks, mock innocence.

“Hmmm, and what will you give me in return?” He looks at Derek through his eyelashes.

“Well,” Derek says, reaching out and pulling Stiles in closer to him by his belt loops. “How about lunch?” he says, wrapping his arms around Stiles’s waist, nuzzling against his neck.

“Like a date?” Stiles asks thoughtfully.

Derek grins, brings his lips just out of reach of Stiles’s. “Exactly like a date,” he whispers, his breath hot on Stiles’s lips.

“I think that’s a fair trade,” Stiles says with a grin.

“Good,” Derek says, finally kissing Stiles.

Kissing Derek is something Stiles will never tire of. In fact the only thing that separates them is when someone honks at them as they drive by. When they part, Derek’s cheeks and the tips of his ears are red, and it’s fucking adorable.

“How about that date?” Stiles says, giving Derek one last peck on the lips. They both climb into his Jeep and take off out of the parking lot.

They hold hands the entire way to the restaurant.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Suzanne](https://twitter.com/SatanInaCroptop) for the Norse mythology help and background, and [Fea](http://hamburgerjimmy.tumblr.com) for beta-ing.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://literaryoblivion.tumblr.com) or [my twitter](http://twitter.com/lit_oblivion).


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